Desolate waves

A poetic take on my experience with the emotional symptoms of post-concussion syndrome


Pent up aggression

The waves, they wash over me, lifting me up, their power almost transcending my control, brimming on the edge, wanting only a drop to overflow. 

Then it's gone, carried itself away on an unseen tide and I'm left standing in a desolate landscape with none but the drops of my eyes. I wander aimlessly, not caring, just going through the motions, first the left foot then the right one. The scenery goes unseen, my eyes glazed with tears.

I wipe at them furiously, futily...
And for a moment, I achieve focus.

Three figures stand.
The first drags the second, indiscriminately in circles, stumbling over its own feet.
The second shivers, cold sweat rolling off his pale face. His eyes see naught but the dead, his ears hear naught but screams and he tastes naught but smoke and blood.

The third and foremost figure stands alone, old and frail, bent with age. He takes no notice of the others, or I, his gaze locked, unmoving.

I turn from them and run. I run long, never looking back to see if they follow as my heart pounds in my ear. I have no need to, for over the horizon they appear, three figures. 
No matter which way I turn, nor how far I travel I can't run away for it's vain to run from yourself. So instead I run to them. They turn as one, and suddenly are all consuming.
There is no warning. There is no sound of rushing water as the blood rushes through my veins.

There are only waves

The End

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